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“Oh, so you do listen to me once in a while.” I laugh, as I pull up some footage of Luca on my tablet and slow it down so we can watch his mechanics and see what we can figure out before we get to Mesa.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Green Monster
MAX
“Max?”Nico elbows me. “Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I grumble.
“Because you’ve got that look in your eye…”
“What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna hit him in the numbers’ look.”
Too bad it’s not an intrasquad game today. Because Lucawouldget one in the numbers. Or the leg. Maybe the shoulder. The shoulder would be poetic, considering that’s where his hand is right now.Sutton’sshoulder. And she’s laughing at something he said. I can’t imagine anything Luca says being funny enough to make Sutton laugh, but her low laugh ripples across the bus, like music to my ears. Music I haven’t heard in a long time.
Not since the playoffs,my traitorous brain reminds me and I push the thoughts away, focusing my attention not on Sutton and Luca but on Nico sitting beside me, hoping to talk about the game we’re supposed to be starting today. I’m the starting pitcher and he’s my catcher, my focus should be the game, the first pitch. Not the hitting coach sitting two rows away. Not the hitting coach who is my nextdoor neighbor for the next few weeks.
Anddefinitelynot that moment in the dugout last fall…
“Max, I need to know what you expect from me,” Nico’s voice is soft, reserved. He’s always quiet and reserved. The quietest catcher I’ve ever worked with. “I’ve never called a game for you before.”
“You’ll do great Nico. You’ve read the scouting reports, you’ve caught me plenty of times in camp. Don’t worry about it. If you call something I don’t like or don’t think I should throw, I’ll shake you off. Don’t take it personally, just drop another signal. This is what spring training is for – we’re learning how to work with each other.”
The tension visibly drains from Nico’s shoulders at my reassurance, his anxiety replaced by a determined glint in his eye. I’ve been in this league for almost twenty years, and I’ve pitched with a lot of catchers as they’ve come to Seattle before moving on to other teams. I’ve watched a lot of young catchers come up and go right back down, but I have high hopes for Nico, and not just because I haven’t scared him away yet.
The bus pulls up to the complex in Mesa and we troop into the visitor’s clubhouse. I watch as Sutton finds her way to the area designated for her. She, once again, is relegated to a space far away from the team, with no place to store her belongings, and no place to call her own for the time we’re here. Some teams are accommodating, others are not, and you’d think that as long as Sutton has been coaching this wouldn’t still be an issue.
Tearing my attention away from Sutton, I step into the visiting clubhouse and drop into a chair next to Nico where I take off my shoes and begin the process of changing into uniform. Luca sits across the clubhouse, tablet in hand, a furrow in his brow as Perez slings an arm around his shoulder with a grin.
“You and Davis looked awfully cozy on the bus.”
My blood simmers in my veins.
Luca has the good sense not to deck Perez here and now. I would, if it wouldn’t cause a massive scene.
“We were going over stats,” Luca says calmly. “Scouting reports. Prepping for the game.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” My stomach sours at the implication in Perez’s words, and I stand, ready to cross the room and set him straight myself when Luca rises to his own impressive height, his eyes meeting mine with a fire that I recognize. The same fire I had in my eyes in the first few years Sutton was with us and I was still navigating how to deal with what that meant.
In the five years I’ve known Sutton, I’ve spent a lot of nights at her dining table, or with her at mine, hearing about the challenges she’s faced in this league, with men who think she doesn’t belong here, men – even on our own team, unfortunately – who have nothing better to do than make crass remarks rather than let her do her job.
I grab my glove and grab Nico before crossing the clubhouse to Luca. Grabbing his shoulder with a little more force than necessary, I jerk my head in the direction of the tunnel, and guide him out and away from Perez. There’s nothing Sutton hates more than being the source of conflict or the center of attention, and fighting back against Perez would make her both. In a space where she can’t speak for herself.
“How do you deal with it?” Luca asks, nearly vibrating with rage. “I know you’re her friend, you’ve known her longer than I have. How do you deal with it?”
My gaze tracks to Sutton, standing behind the backstop, her chestnut hair gathered into a sleek ponytail that hangs down her back, her gray uniform pants hugging the curves of her legs, and the teal of our road uniform bringing out her spring training tan. I have known her longer, certainly longerthan most of the guys on this team, and I know that if Luca or I said anything to Perez and Sutton found out, she wouldn’t be happy with us.
“As hard as it is, I deal with it by walking away.”
“We really werejustlooking at stats, Max. I need you, especially, to know that.” Luca smirks and quirks an eyebrow in my direction, and I feel like I’ve been caught with my hand in a cookie jar.
“Why do I care?” I shrug, going for nonchalant and coming off more defensive than I intended.
Luca, infuriatingly, walks away, heading for the field to take batting practice. As I walk to the bullpen my mind drifts to last October, and our last game of the postseason. We’d been riding the high of an historic playoff run, our loss wasn’t easy on anyone, and we all experienced a storm of emotions that night. We were alone in the dugout, and it had just started to rain…
